


Wrapped Up in You (The Bodyswap Remix)

by monanotlisa



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Bodyswap, Character(s) of Color, Crime Fighting, Friendship, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Magical Realism, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, Platonic Life Partners, Remix, Season/Series 03, Tea, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His response was a sniff, and could her face really look that haughty? “Oh, don’t be silly, Watson. I assure you I have worn much higher heels in much more arduous circumstances.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Of course he had.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped Up in You (The Bodyswap Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Elementary Ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539680) by [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls). 



> Set in the second half of Season Three, before 3x24 "A Controlled Descent."

Miss Felicia was sent out the door with compliments and apologies, off-kilter but keeping her balance in a way Joan secretly found admirable. This ludus interruptus couldn’t have been easy for the domme. From Miss Felicia’s perspective, her usually agreeable sub client had suddenly chafed at his restraints in the middle of the play session, and his roommate had crashed it, screaming the safeword. 

Now the inhabitants of 42 Stanford Avenue were left to themselves -- strike that: Joan and Sherlock were left to each other, in each other’s respective body, and that right there was the problem. 

Joan was more at ease with Sherlock using her name, the bees’ name, as his safeword during play. It had taken some hand gestures and fast-talking on his part, but Joan was willing to buy what Sherlock was selling: It wasn’t that he pondered her -- or the bees -- during kink session pastimes, he had explained (her own shoulders up toward her ears, her head tucked forward like a bird’s). Be that as it might, she and the bees were whom he associated on an essential level with the idea of _safety_.

Joan was less at ease with the situation at hand. 

Sherlock wasn’t huge, objectively. But inside his body she he felt large, looming. His -- her, goddamn, _her_ skin was still prickling, and by now it really shouldn’t be the endorphins of sex and exertion. The skin around her wrists was still red, although she appreciated both the past softness of the leather and the present cocoon of her fluffiest bathrobe. Her genitals were suddenly very...dangly. Given Sherlock’s playtime, Joan should be relaxed and at ease. But that was close to the last emotion she was feeling.

The first one was easier to identify: exasperation. “Sherlock, what is this?” So maybe she still wasn’t over the notion it was all. His. Fault.

He threw up his...okay, she would stick with this from here on in: His hands. Up in the air. It didn’t look ridiculous, the way it should have: Sudden movements in his own thin English body often looked less than elegant. Maybe it helped that this morning she’d put on her anthracite crewneck; the fabric barely shifted around Sherlock’s current form. “A fever-dream born of the unfortunate relapse into habits I thought I had held at bay. A quantum-physical shift, no more favorable. A twist of fate, pardon my trite touch there.”

Joan was pretty sure fate was a word reserved for US-made fortune cookies, and told him as much. Sherlock told her via clipped consonants that alas, the situation somewhat supported his take and not hers. Bottom line, they could poke their bodies and stretch themselves and much as they wanted to; this _folie à deux_ remained firmly in place. In space. In whatever-this-was.

She put her hands on her hips, thought better of it, then decided to keep them there. “If any of your Irregulars specialize in this irregularity, it’s a good time to put out the bat signal.”

“You are mistaking me not even for a fictional hero but his police liaison of dubious competence, Watson,” he said, and it sounded...not that prissy; not from her mouth. His posture had eased a little, face thoughtful. Perching on the kitchen counter, feet dangling because that was life at 5’3’’ for you, he was at once the same and different. Sherlock’s fingers were toying with the handle of the cup she’d left right next to the sink earlier this Saturday morning; clearly his dexterity hadn’t suffered. But then again, he was fidgety and she was a surgeon. “If I had any wizards at my disposal you’d have met them by now.”

Joan suppressed a Harry Potter joke; it would do none of them any good. “So we go on with our daily lives until we switch back at some point?”

He tilted his head, an oddly shrewd motion. “What do you propose?”

She took a deep breath. “I propose I take a shower first.” No need to go into the reasons. “You don’t need to because I already did.”

He stared at her and nodded once. “Watson, should I remain in this state, I will make sure to not touch your body unduly, let alone explore it. Washcloths exist, so do not worry about cleanliness.” He hesitated and now, now his hands stilled entirely. “While you will not surprised that I am in theory curious, in practice I shall do nothing.”

Joan exhaled; there’d been a lot of air in her lungs. Feminist awareness of from Sherlock, sure. Him bringing up the care and feeding of each other’s body seemed...early. “Of course -- of course I promise to do the same.”

“You need to do no such thing, Watson.” He hopped off the counter, but ended up having to take a swift step forward like a bar-challenged gymnast. She could see her _gastrocnemius_ jump under the black leggings. He made sure to face her fully. ”That kind of rigid reciprocity is not friendship. It’s petty.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, _But what if I don’t want to do anything with your body_. Only his last word there stopped her; saying that out loud would make her sound -- well, exactly conventional as she was. Sherlock wasn’t wrong. He simply was unconcerned with social mores in ways she wasn’t (and didn’t want nor need to emulate). 

As if through a funhouse mirror, Joan watched the line of her lips soften and her shoulders drop. Sherlock’s voice out of her mouth was gentle. “Of course, this is not an obligation. I merely thought you as a physician might find some, shall we say, hands-on experience of the male body quite exhilarating.”

“That’s one word for it.” Her pitch was almost right; she didn’t quite have the hang of the dry commentary yet -- Sherlock’s vocal chords appeared to be a little jumpy. “Let’s agree on me being respectful.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” He looked at her, and the surface of her face was perfectly calm. “In fact, I rather suspect you’ll take better care of my body that I have been known to.”

Joan thought of getting out of the restraints and to her room, pulling on that robe, of the pale starburst of track-marks in the crook of his elbows. She thought of the jittery outbursts 80% due to the fireworks of his brain but 20% due to hypoglycemia after not eating at the times he needed to. Yes. She could do this.

She looked down at her long, hairy toes. “I’ll make a beeline for your closet before the shower.” He kept raiding hers; turnabout, fair play, bla bla bla. “If I come downstairs in half an hour, will there be tea?”

 _Of course_ his eyes said. “Watsonnnn,” his mouth said.

Fine.

 

They ended up having oolong, respectively Keemun, and because Sherlock insisted that he couldn’t live without brain-work, also a discussion of their current case. Joan was reminded, by him, that this was not merely their vocation but their true calling. 

Joan was also, by herself, reminded that she wanted to slap Sherlock. The sentiment wasn’t all-new, but it was a lot more urgent now.

Twenty-four hours, Sherlock pleaded. They were to devote all their time until the next noon to this, and the time thereafter to their ‘predicament’. 

Joan didn’t agree with Sherlock’s timing or terminology, but this murder _could_ presumably be solved by logic and investigation. Gregson and Bell had interrogated the dead man’s children, a woman and a man, without many inroads. So had Joan and Sherlock, partially. 

“Watson, when we saw her yesterday she was being completely forthright, if also heartbroken.” 

“Saying what’s true doesn’t mean it’s the full truth.”

“Spoken like -- me, in fact.” His face was unreadable.

Joan pondered this for a moment. Her thought processes felt the same; she wasn’t sharper or swifter, as far as she could tell. Sherlock’s brain hadn’t propelled her reasoning to the next level, and no epiphanies had assaulted her in the shower. These neurons and synapses, receptors neurotransmitters had to be Sherlock’s...by any science-based reasoning. 

Never mind. 

“Let’s go back to the start.” The faint tendrils of a headache were crawling across the inside of her skull, so Joan walked over to the fridge. Grabbing the leftovers from yesterday’s quinoa salad, she considered her current caloric needs, and sliced two eggs on top of it before digging in. It tasted -- sour, salty, peppery, very much so. She checked; no she hadn’t accidentally emptied the whole shaker into the bowl. “If it wasn’t a freak accident --”

“You know how I feel about coincidences. A happening must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable.” Sherlock peered at her plate. “I might need a second breakfast, too.” 

Joan tempered all her responses to that. Over-controlling food intake was dubious for anybody. Any body. Sherlock appreciated good food, when he found time to slot it into his routine. “If it wasn’t a freak accident someone he knew pushed Cornelius Monroe down the stairway curving into the lobby, and that someone could only have come, invited or seemingly invited, through the entrance and road up to the estate.”

She had complex feelings about the guarded properties of East Coast scions, but here, the predominant one was relief: It did narrow down the list of suspects.

Sherlock rummaged through the breadbox, taking out yesterday’s still-fresh baguette, then grabbed the Serrano from the top shelf. With a flourish and the _jamonero_ from the knife board, he deftly created thin slices to drizzle olive oil over. Joan found herself momentarily mesmerized by the sound the bread made when its crust splintered between Sherlock’s teeth but continued, “I say we do what you already implied -- we check out the brother, too, no matter how far away he lives from the estate.”

His chin jerked toward the door, agreement and incitement; that gesture definitely looked out of place. “Not everything is about distance.” 

 

He hadn’t been wrong. Sherlock also hadn’t been exactly right about Monroe. (Or “Ricky,” as he had sneered, “no one I like calls me Richard.”) 

On the very short ride back, he and she had tossed back and forth the mix of glaring motive -- estrangement, resentment, and enough negativity simmering under the surface to steal a city’s electricity supply for a year -- and apparent lack of opportunity. (“Sure, I hated the old fart, disowned son and all. But I haven’t done it; been here all day and night. Your boys in blue have confirmed my alibi. How could I have made it all the way out there in rush-hour traffic in the one hour I wasn’t in the gallery?”) It was a good puzzle, but Ricky had given them the map to it: How indeed would a deadbeat “artist” with three DUIs, no vehicle, and no helicopter make a trip that in a car took about 1.5 hours during gridlock?

Thankfully, Sherlock in Joan's body was just as observant as Sherlock in his.

Now, alone in her room and getting ready for bed, Joan circled back to herself in his body. It was almost midnight; she half-expected a clock to strike somewhere in Brooklyn. She had a floor-length mirror, but she knew very well what Sherlock looked like -- including naked, through no effort or desire on her own. 

Of course she washed up; that was a given. She’d had no trouble peeing standing up earlier, although she supposed she cheated a little now by sitting down on her toilet. It was fine during brushing her teeth that Sherlock’s face was staring at her, only mildly inquisitive, maybe a little wide-eyed. The hair on his body was disconcerting, but she wasn’t sure that was a sign of gender-based dysphoria; he was simply not Asian. The soft fabric of the t-shirt he wore at night rustled across her skin, not too pleasantly. It was a relief that his Sex Pistols pajama bottoms were so frayed and soft from frequent washing. Still, when she pulled them all the way up the slide of the fabric did make her penis and balls jump. Joan stilled. Okay, that was something. 

Her bedsheets, on the other hand, were everything. She sighed happily and dug under the covers. Sleep. She never seemed to get enough of that when Sherlock was near. Joan closed her eyes.

Joan opened her eyes and jackknifed into a sitting position, gulping in a deep breath. Right, right: she was at home; she was in the Brownstone; she was in Sherlock Holmes’s body. Her skin still felt as if miniscule currents were running underneath. If it had been only her lower extremities, she would have tentatively diagnosed Sherlock with Restless Leg Syndrome, but as it was, her whole body was buzzing. On her nightstand, the clock read 1:07am. She had been asleep for just an hour. 

Sherlock’s insomnia. So she couldn’t quite get the leaps of logic, but she could get this?

With a sound that sounded gruff to her ears, she dropped back into her pillows. How to get to sleep? She couldn’t simply rummage for an Ambien; for obvious reasons, anxiolytics, sedatives, and hypnotics were not available in their household. She had Sleepytime tea in the downstairs cupboard, but that was about it. She didn’t want a glass of milk. 

There were, of course, natural ways of inducing feelings of well-being and tiredness. Orgasms would be a surefire way to get a nice norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, and prolactin kick. Joan stared at the dark ceiling for a minute. On the one hand, she didn’t particularly care for looking Sherlock in the eye after knowing his climax reactions; this was as intimate as it could get. On the other hand, she knew him so deeply already, and in much darker circumstances. Sometimes he felt like an extension of herself: not a brother or spouse but genuinely like a part of her, an arm, a leg. A dick?

Joan bit her lower lip and reached down to touch herself. That shaft with its soft, crinkly skin. She’d been on the other side of this, but the pleasant sensation wasn’t just tactile now -- she was feeling it from both sides, and it was good. Very good. 

Very, very good.

 

Coming down the stairs well-rested and post-shower the next morning, she was not sure what outfit to expect on Sherlock: jeggings and one of her wide Zara print t-shirts, maybe, hair pulled into an easy-to-do ponytail. 

Joan saw her body bent over the kitchen table and rifling at lightning speed through a spiral spread of photographs: printed out still-frames of the security-cam footage they had been promised last night. Clearly the company had come through with its promise early in the morning. All of this was worth her attention.

But first, Joan was struck by three things: One, her butt was tight and worth a thankful prayer to genetics and her yoga teacher both. Two, Sherlock was wearing her favorite Victoria Beckham button-up combo dress. And, three, Sherlock had braided her hair: neatly, carefully, with a flourish in the shape of a hair clip the very color of the blue print on the blouse part. 

“Nice outfit,” she said, and cleared her throat at the rough sound. Mental note, exercise vocal chords of Sherlock before speaking. “I particularly like the clip. Did you appropriate a gift once purchased for Zulema?”

“Ah, Watson. Good morning.” Her face seemed somber when he glanced up, but there were no tense lines around her eyes, and her make-up was flawless, on the light side. Better to undershoot than overshoot; she couldn’t blame Sherlock. His posture was energetic. If he saw the traces of last night’s activities in the lines of her body -- and that was likely -- he followed through and made no show of it. “Yes, indeed; did you remember Zulema’s dress?”

Hard not to; the woman had been tall and regal, the midnight blue of her ballgown several shades lighter than her black skin. She was among the few of Sherlock’s lovers who paid more than fleeting attention to Joan. Joan had paid more than fleeting attention to her, for more than the mental exercise of memory. 

“I remember her.” She joined him at the table, scanned the pictures. “And I remember this.” Joan flicked her index finger at the ninth photo from the outer rim. “This. Gotta be him.” It showed a geared-up figure in a motorcycle helmet riding a small bike with an insulated box on the rear that spelled...right: _Neal’s on Wheels_ , the little gourmet delivery shop on the same block as Ricky Monroe’s basement dwelling. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. The smug expression on her face bothered her a bit, but Joan still found the eyebrow game impressive in a body that had not done so before. “This, my dear Watson, is a 2014 Vespa GTS300 Super. It seems that overpriced gourmet delivery services can ask for higher prices and afford higher-end scooters.”

“Which can easily go 65mph on a freeway, I assume.” She didn’t make it a question; the glint in her eye was obvious. “Are they missing one of these yet didn’t have a record of delivering to Monroe’s estate?”

“I tried calling them, but it seems the official opening time is 10am.” Two hours away, not ideal. “I have however consulted Yelp Dot Com, where a kind citizen named ‘hotrolls4eva’ shared that Neal’s does start taking orders in person from 8:30am at their store location.”

“And given that both Ricky’s place and Neal’s on Wheels are only fifteen walking minutes away here in Brooklyn --”

“-- we should leave in a quarter of an hour, yes.”

They did, and because she was keenly invested in keeping this body on a perfectly even blood-sugar keel and have breakfast, she missed Sherlock’s choice of footwear. Joan loved her Michael Kors, she really did, but she wasn’t entirely sure whether she should have reminded Sherlock that she also owned flats, many pairs of them, in fact. 

After five minutes, watching Sherlock next to her, Joan gave in and gave him a sideways look. “So much for walking a mile in her shoes.”

His response was a sniff, and could her face really look that haughty? “Oh, don’t be silly, Watson. I assure you I have worn much higher heels in much more arduous circumstances.”

Of course he had.

Not of course but also not unsurprisingly, Neal’s _had_ missed one of their delivery vehicles -- emphasis on the past tense, because while there had been a bit of a panic for about thirty minutes, after that time the eponymous Neal had found the lost machine in a side street: down on gas and smoking-hot to the touch, but otherwise in perfect condition. No police report had been filed; the only thing the business had done from here on in was move the key-box into the administrative office area, out of the hallway where the vehicles were parked.

Sherlock did rub his hands when they exited and flagged a taxi, and she shook her head at that. “Only one puzzle piece missing now, Watson: How does our young friend suppose he will reap what he sowed?”

“It has to be through the inheritance -- he probably won’t be able to access the value of the house and grounds, but the stocks, cash, accounts will be transferred to his sister.”

“Who does not seem to run around with large amounts of cash, nor want that. Let’s find out. Of course, she did not seem overly fond of me the first time around.” Joan had a theory on why that was. It literally involved Sherlock poking his nose into her paper calendar and asking, three times, if she ever gave her brother any monetary assistance these days. Suddenly, fiercely, Joan missed Kitty. Kitty would have been at once great and terrible in the middle of this.

“Joan Watson should see her -- but, Sherlock?”

He did look up and, oh, good; his posture was _way_ better now. 

“Please make something out of this second chance. Be friendly. Be empathic.” She knew Sherlock could be, which was half the reason he was so infuriating when he chose not to.

 

Back at the Brownstone, she had barely taken off Sherlock’s shoes -- very comfy, bespoke, almost unnecessary to take off -- when she heard the soft click of the front door latch -- not the sound of a lockpick but the sound of a key. Only -- Sherlock was in Manhattan.

Joan mentally recalled the location of the baseball bat under the stairs and the knife block in the kitchen before peering around the wall to see. 

“Marthe,” she said, and immediately smiled. “Good to see you -- you need anything? Did you set up some time and I forgot about it?” 

But when Joan came closer to Marthe Hudson, the woman looked -- startled. Underneath the carefully curated smile she mustered, she could have been scared, even. 

“I am. The question is, are you?” Marthe pressed her lips together (lightly lipsticked; if Joan had to guess, Chanel, Rouge Coco Shine) and pivoted away from her with ease. “Sherlock, if this is one of your outlandish experiments --”

“No experiments,” Joan slowed down, forced herself to stop and drop her smile, “although the story is a little outlandish.” To give credit where credit was due: “Okay, a lot.”

Marthe’s lashes gently swept her cheeks; when her eyes met Joan’s they bore no lies. Marthe pressed her lips together then opened them: “Are you Joan?”

In a nutshell. “We need to talk. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

In the kitchen, sitting down and settling down, it took Joan about one minute to explain the delicate moment of realization, plus a few words that were not about glossing over -- well, euglassing over, maybe. Explaining the overall phenomenon took longer, and Joan suspected she let everything out in a rush mostly to be safe, to be safe for Marthe.

There was no simple way of asking the question, but Joan knew Marthe would not hold clumsiness against her: “Is this, me in Sherlock’s body, uncomfortable for you?”

Marthe’s hands folded around her teacup, but they were gentle, exerted no pressure. She tilted her head sideways to look at Joan, and Joan had no doubt she was seeing her, not Sherlock. “It is a strange feeling -- to talk to you but to see his face.” She fell quiet for a moment, taking a sip of the jasmine-chamomile. “But that’s not what you meant. Pardon the humor, but I wouldn’t want to trade places with you.”

“I don’t think you would.” And yet. Here was this tumble into an alternate universe, one where the impossible was possible. Only it happened to someone who had never wanted life as the other sex -- well, not really. 

“What I would not want, and I guess the word is: again, is to find myself in the body of another person. I don’t think that sets me apart from many.” Marthe inhaled the steam wafting up. “This is really lovely, by the way; warm flower notes are always welcome. Harney and Sons’?”

“Belocq,” Joan murmured, “their tea portfolio is impressive, and they’re in easy reach. And yes, this is Sherlock’s body. It’s not mine. I want mine back.” Listening to the words once out of her mouth, Joan knew them to be true. She did not dislike this experience, but it was just that -- an experience. 

Marthe smiled. “I’m not saying I know how you feel, and I know you’re not saying you know how I felt,” and Joan didn’t, “but our identities and bodies are complex issues. Feelings of intense distress and experiences of external distress only. Scholars and activists have spent their lifetimes on exploring them, and there’s plenty undiscovered still. You are just one traveler.”

“And I didn’t even buy a ticket.” 

That got her an actual laugh, smoky and soft. “Get in line.” 

 

Marthe had left by the time Sherlock called -- called to yell, _Eureka_ into his cellphone receiver, because talking to Joan in private had finally jogged the sister’s memory: the memory of her tech-savvy brother setting up all her online bank accounts, passwords and everything. And with full access to limit-setting, to fund transfers, to all of the inheritance... there was really no need for Ricky Monroe to do anything but induce death, sit back, and wait.

He’d thought he was waiting for riches to trickle through the pipeline of wills and trusts. Bell and Gregson definitely had the will to slap Joan and Sherlock’s hard evidence on the desk Ricky Monroe was chained to in his dun-walled interrogation room. And his sister was short on trust, having changed all her passwords and revoked all access to her accounts and locations.

Ricky cracked after about three hours. The clinking sound of his handcuffs was -- well, it wasn’t quite music to Joan’s ears; it did make the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation. 

Still, Joan was perfectly willing to gloat in complete silence, which had Gregson throw her a long look in passing. But Sherlock (while clearly restraining himself) was gently rolling back and forward on the heels of his feet, and yes, he was wearing heels again. She was so far beyond eye-rolling, but thankfully, Bell was there, and when Bell was there he was _there_. “You okay, Joan?”

“Me? Sure.” Sherlock’s face went properly impassive, and his body settled, poised like a setter but at least motionless.

“Just haven’t seen you this way.” Bell’s voice dipped to a rumble that only the Joan he saw was meant to hear, but then again, she was in Sherlock’s body, and his hearing was great. “Anxious underneath.” He looked down from Sherlock’s face at the floor and up again with one of his half-smiles. “You know where to find me if a standard sleuth like me can help.”

A burst of warmth in Joan’s chest. She smiled, before she could help it. She bit her lip, but thankfully Bell had already passed by. 

 

At the Brownstone, Joan threw Sherlock’s coat over the rack and kept the shoes on: easier to swivel around to Sherlock and look down at him. At least the height she could get used to. “It’s way past noon, Sherlock.”

“Well, I guess then it’s high time to saunter into the wardrobe and ask for that audience with Aslan.”

Knowing how Sherlock felt about religion, this one surprised her. “You can’t tell me you haven’t continued running scenarios in your mind as to reverse this. Like, replicate the original setting. Or do the reverse! Browbeat me into a little expansion of mind, body, and kink with Miss Felicia!” That wasn’t actually the worst option she’d come up with; clearly whatever worked for Sherlock physically...worked.

“I have. Only, Watson --” for the first time in three years, Sherlock seemed at a loss, “all of these are based on leaps of logic.”

“And you’re always the first and last to state they’re our best chance.” Joan felt jitteriness of -- she didn’t know what it was, but she wasn’t imagining it. “We can’t do what’s impossible, so that leaves only what’s possible.” 

“A corollary to Occam’s Razor,” Sherlock murmured, but he still hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, and that drove her crazy. 

“Sherlock.” She reached out to close her hands gently around his wrist. “We have to --”

Under her fingers his skin, her skin, was cool and soft but shifted rapidly into the sharp sensation of heat, of vertigo. Joan’s world flickered, graying out at the edges as if hooked into the California grid circa 2001.

When the lights came on again in her mind, Joan was staring, from below, at Sherlock’s face, his rapidly blinking eyes and open mouth. There was a speck of parsley in his teeth from this morning’s omelette (damn him for not having told her earlier). Their positions had switched. They had switched back. 

She allowed herself a gasp, then let go. Lifted her own hands up to her face. “We’re back.”

He shook himself like a wet dog for just a second. “We were never gone.”

Semantics. “I’m going to give you a hug now. And then I’m going to have a large glass of wine.”

Sherlock’s strong, bony arms felt much better from this end. When she leaned back and dropped down from her tiptoes, he too smiled -- a little dreamily, maybe. “I shall use the time to look after the bees. I had been pondering some changes for Euglassia Watsonia. Dividing colonies can help to improve colonisation rates without having to wait for swarms to arrive naturally.” 

“Join you on the rooftop later?”

And Sherlock tilted his head at her: ennui and invitation at once.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Thanks to KT for their beta work & overall positivity.  
> 2\. Title taken from, err. A classic?  
> 3\. First Elementary piece ever. I love these two, y'all.


End file.
